


Embers

by sunflowerbright



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, aka byebye Glorfindel, but we know he comes back in canon so its okay right?, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 19:25:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glorfindel meets his end atop Cirith Thoronath</p>
            </blockquote>





	Embers

The world is a brightly lit place of colours, hues of the sunset. Orange and red are battling with the strange violet that is slowly taking over his vision. It is beautiful, in its own strange way.

Then Glorfindel breathes in and the ash and smoke is a threatening pull, filling his lungs like acid and he heaves for air that isn’t there, coughs and splutters and wonders if the red smearing the ground is his blood or the fading rays of a dying sun.

Somewhere that must be close, but sounds far off to his ears, a roaring sound is heard, like a thousand lions are charging at once. Violet and black intermingles, dancing and intertwining like old friends, lovers happy to see each other. It’s all he can do not to close his eyes, the smoke finding way in there as well. He can smell burnt flesh and like the blood it must be his. It cannot be anyone else but his.

The sound of children’s laughter echoes through the ground and a low bell chimes in tune with the heavy footsteps approaching. It is all he can do not to curse out loud, wondering what it will take for the blasted thing to die.

_“ Lord Glorfindel? Lord Glorfindel…”_

_The child’s name is hovering on his tongue, something not-quite remembered. It’s exasperating when such small details utterly escapes him._

_“Yes?”_

_“Is it true that Balrog’s have wings, my Lord? Can they really fly?”_

_“I know not, little one. I have yet to meet one. But if I do, I will be sure to give you an answer.”_

There is a billowing cape of smoke and shadow following the thing in its wake, but if it will enable to let the beast fly, Glorfindel cannot say. His ears are ringing and the blood – the life – is leaving his body. And he cannot let his people down. The thought makes him rise from the ground again, sword clenching in a hand that should be too weak to wield it.

_I do not fear the darkness, merely what is laid in its wake._

“Die, demon.”

Amidst shadow and flame, Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower falls from the mountain, the Balrog following him into the abyss of death. The fire burns out, leaving only ash in its wake: a wall of embers and stolen light.


End file.
